


A Fortune of Feelings

by punk_rock_yuppie



Series: Drabbles [16]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Spoilers for s2 of Legends (from SDCC), angsty, but also kind of fluffy, this is exactly what I want to happen in s2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 13:36:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7620127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: coldwave+clasp</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fortune of Feelings

**Author's Note:**

> i used the word clasp in this fic, that counts right? warning for spoilers for s2 of legends that we learned via SDCC

Looking back, it’s ridiculous.

* * *

 

They’re in the midst of a firefight when it happens. Darhk, Merlyn, and Thawne each have their own gaggle of minions and every time Mick thinks he’s taken down a good chunk of them, a new batch appears. Firestorm is hovering over the fight, raining flames down on them while doing his best to keep Thawne in check--none of the rest of them have the skills to take on a speedster.

(Not without Len’s gun, Mick thinks, before quashing the thought.)

Sara and Rip are focused on Darhk, Palmer is giving it his all against Merlyn, and Mick and the rest of the Legends crew are fighting the stragglers, the one-offs, keeping the minions entertained. It’s a delight, in an idle way, but almost too easy aside from the seemingly endless waves of them. 

Mick has just set fire to another group of them when something catches his eye: something bright and blue and ethereal. Mick is immediately aware of the chill spreading across their battlefield and the way all their breathing hangs in the air like ornaments of ice. The cold trails in tendrils across the ground and covers the scorching from Mick’s gun with minimal effort, even when the patches are still smoldering. 

Mick follows the trails of ice up to their source, and can’t help the broken noise that tumbles from his lips. He holsters the gun in an instant, let he drop it. His feet start him stumbling forward before he can think better of it--or before anyone can stop him.

When there’s only a few feet separating them--not eons, not lifetimes, not death--Mick stops walking and so does Len. Len whose skin is deathly pale and eyes are nearly entirely white except for the sharp blue in the center. His lips are blue as are his fingertips, and his whole body is encased in a mix of ice and time. 

Mick’s mouth is dry. 

Len is smirking with an evil glint in his eyes, the only sort of emotion in his expression. 

* * *

 

Again, it must be reiterated--when Mick looks back, he realizes what he did was patently ridiculous. Doesn’t mean he’d do it any differently, though.

* * *

 

Mick lets out another distraught noise and closes the distance between them. He doesn’t pay any mind to the below zero temperature sinking into his skin or the way his blood slows, sluggish in his veins. He doesn’t care that his teeth start to chatter or that the voices of the Time Masters bleed back into his thoughts, the sensation of the oculus leaving a bad taste in his mouth.

He doesn’t care about any of it, not as he steps in Len’s space and wraps him into a crushing hug. He pulls Len against him hard enough to bruise, clasping his hands around Len’s body like a vice. He buries his face against Len’s ice-flecked shoulder and lets out a shuddering sigh. 

“Lenny.” Mick breathes. He stays like that for a long while, the battle around them still raging. He doesn’t move until he feels Len’s shaking fingers claw at his jacket and grip desperately at the thick fabric. “ _Lenny_ ,” Mick hisses again. 

When Mick finally raises his head, the chill isn’t as bad and Len is looking back at him with wide, frightened eyes. Len’s eyes are still more white than not, but the crystal blue has faded more to his natural color. His skin is still pale, but his lips have the slightest pink flush in them, especially as he gnaws at the skin nervously. 

Mick laughs, a wet sound with tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He leans in before he can stop himself and kisses Len hard on the mouth. It’s a rough and biting kiss and they’re both making sad, desperate noises into one another’s mouths. 

“Lenny.” Mick hasn’t said his name in at least six months and to say it again feels like drinking water after decades in a desert. 

“Mick,” Len’s voice is a croak; his word breaks in the middle like ice snapping, but it’s still the best thing Mick has ever heard. 

They kiss again and again until the ice has faded, more manageable inside Len’s body, and they keep kissing until Sara shouts--

“Get a room or lend a hand!” 


End file.
